The Bloomsbury Room
by Sherwholockian
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock must find employment while laying low.


The Bloomsbury Room

Sherlock Holmes sits in his armchair across from the fire. He stares at his skull, thinking. Suddenly, he realizes he doesn't have a case: he will never have a case again. To do so would give the indication that he was indeed still alive. He couldn't risk it, couldn't risk John's life like that. He glances at the clock: it reads 12:37. Sherlock realizes he must leave for work. His boring mundane job at The Bloomsbury Room, washing the dishes. He jumps out of the chair and strides toward his closet. He opens the door of the closet and sees his coat and scarf hanging there. Seeing it reminds him of the time John pointed out his tendency to pop the collar of his coat to make him seem more mysterious. He smiles, before remembering the pain he felt. He grabs his leather jacket (part of his disguise), puts it on and closes the door. He spins around and exits his townhouse, thankful that Mycroft's connections were finally useful for something. He hails a taxi quickly. He knows that John is not likely to be in this neighbourhood, but he still dislikes being in the open. Luckily, it is not long before a taxi stops in front of him. He climbs in the back, tells the cab driver the address and it's not long before he is lost in thought again.

After what seems to Sherlock as hours later, but is in fact only 20 minutes, the taxi stops outside of The Bloomsbury Room. Sherlock pays the driver, steps out of the cab and rushes into the building. "You're late!" His boss, Mr. Fulton cries as Sherlock enters the building. "One more time and you won't have a job to be late for."

"Sorry, sir," Sherlock mumbles, before ducking into the kitchen. As he enters the kitchen, he inwardly groans as he notices who the chef is that night: David Harper. Not a particularly bright individual, Sherlock hated to work with him. Sherlock could tell by the way he dressed and from the amount of cat hair on his clothes that he lead a lonely life. This didn't excuse him, in Sherlock's mind, for asking meaningless questions to stave off the silence in the kitchen. How was your day, do you have plans later, meet anyone lately? It was bad enough Sherlock had to do tedious repetitive tasks all day, but the pointless questions just exacerbated the situation. He never understood why "normal" people felt the need to fill all silence with such meaningless drivel. John understood that, and only asked questions with meaning. He missed that.

Sherlock slipped past David, avoiding drawing attention to himself and approached the stacks of dirty plates, most with the remnants of the patrons' meals still on them. He picks up a butter knife. The butter is on the right side of the blade: left-handed person. The fingerprint smudges look too small to be a man's so it must be a woman's knife. He turns on the sink, adds some dish soap and watches as the sink fills. He times how long it takes the sink to fill to the ring worn into the sides of the basin from prolonged use. 28 seconds. He files that away: it might be useful someday. He places the left-handed woman's butter knife in the sink and picks up a plate. Fat from a steak has been pushed into a pile of barely touched vegetables. Man's plate, he deduces, wife or girlfriend, no definitely girlfriend, was with him. Girlfriend wants him to eat healthier so he opts for the vegetables. He must be considering breaking up with her, or he would have at least eaten some of the vegetables. He scrapes off the plate into the garbage bin to his left and places the plate in the sink to soak.

When he's worked his way through half of the dishes in the pile, (3 couples on first dates, one group of 5 business men and one couple celebrating an anniversary) the waitress, Marie, comes in with a single dish and a tea cup. "Just place it there," Sherlock instructs her.

"Pitiful how people play with their food like that," she complains as she places the plate next to Sherlock. Shocked by her odd statement, Sherlock looks up to observe the plate. There, spelled out in spaghetti noodles was a message: "221B, 3 PM". Marie had started to walk away but Sherlock grabbed her wrist before she got too far. "Who left this?" he shouted at her.

"He paid with cash: I didn't get his name! He was a short bloke, blonde hair, slightly greying. He was wearing a blue jumper and jeans. He walked with a cane too," she cried.

"He ordered tea! 2 sugars, with 1% milk?"

"Yes! How did you know?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He was lost in thought now. He glanced at the clock: 2:37. It would take fifteen minutes to get to Baker St. He would have to leave now to make it in time. He dashed out the door, grabbing his coat on the way out. He hailed a taxi and only once the cab was headed toward his destination could he stop to process what had happened. John knew he was alive. John hadn't given up on him. He was finally going to be reunited with his best friend, his only friend.


End file.
